


Mithridatum

by orphan_account



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Alcoholism, Bottom Sephiroth, Codependence, Extremely Dark Premise, Intersex Characters, M/M, Mentions of Attempted Suicide, Sexual Coercion, Spinoff from Nepenthe, Unhealthy Relationships, first time (ish), mentions of assisted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 09:23:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19129165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Mithridatum:Mithridates VI Eupator of Pontus was said to be immune to all poisons due to a miraculous antidote. However, when his world fell to ruins, he sought death by way of which he was immune, and succumbed to misery until he was slain...partly by his enemies...and partly by his own, excessive consumption of poison.Genesis is dead; Angeal and Sephiroth are not.Coping is a thing of fantasy, and sometimes...need is equal to the sum of what one requires to survive.





	Mithridatum

**Author's Note:**

> **Please read:** This is a branch-off from chapter 22 of Nepenthe. Basically under the premise of the fact that if Sephiroth acquiesced to Genesis's desire to not die in agony, everything would go pear-shaped. There is smut in this fic but it's a dark kind of smut and none of the characters are particularly happy. I would advise caution in this fic, just because it's not like...a healthy undertone of anything whatsoever. Also copious amounts of references to alcohol because apparently I can't do weird ships without it. Again, this is a spinoff, though it won't have a sequel I don't think.

He’d thought he was familiar with loss.

Staring at the rumpled bed sheets....the scattered bottles of alcohol...the seep of blood into the mattress, and the stain of other bodily fluids, Angeal acknowledge that this had been illusionment. Before...everything, he’d considered loss on the battlefield, the way men died with their innards ripped to pieces, screaming to the heavens for their mothers...he’d thought that that would be the worst kind of loss. What do men of combat know otherwise? What could possibly trump the bereavement of one of your men...bleeding out...howling their agony to the empty skies? What could usurp the knowledge that you, as a leader, could not save everyone? That as much victory as there was to be won...there would always be a price? It was something he’d learned to process, but never really accept. There would always be that heavy weight on his shoulder...that deep burden of responsibility in combat, and failure of responsibility that would never go away.

He was a simple man.

Or so he’d thought, anyway. Recently, Angeal had begun to consider the fact that he’d hidden behind that sheen of simplicity because it was the most duplicitous part of him. Not because he was-in truth- _terrible_ ; but because it was easier to play the role when he clung to his roots so stubbornly. It was easy to wax poetic on the importance of honor when you were uncomplicated, when your train of thought was straightforward...never straying here nor there. People looked up to him because he was an open book; easy to read, easy to digest. Genesis had always scoffed at that, and he’d never understood why until he was forced to look at himself fully. When the distraction of valor was peeled away, the ugliness came boiling up to the surface like a hidden toxin waiting to pervade. And maybe it was something that developed...maybe it was a facet of his reality that had never been there before...but it didn’t change the vicious darkness within it.

...It didn’t change the fact that Genesis was dead.

This, too, Angeal was accustomed with. It went without saying that men on the battlefield died. The acceptance of mortality was something the dark-haired First had come to peace with a long time ago...or so he’d thought. Swallowing, the owner of the Buster Sword put his head in his hands...tried to dispel the bone-deep ache of grief in his body and failed...as he had so many times before. But Genesis hadn’t died on the battlefield, he’d died rotting away in a bed in his apartment with the only man he’d ever loved sucked into a vortex of grief and loss and rage. Genesis had died of something simplistic but incurable, something crippling and ruinous but ultimately-in the eyes of a Soldier, without honor. And maybe it was a mercy that he’d gotten his wish in the end...maybe it was a mercy that Sephiroth had acquiesced-at long last-to his right to die; but Angeal was never sure.

He didn’t know if they’d done the right thing.

And, really, they would never know now. Soldier wasn’t willing to give Genesis the necessary items for assisted suicide, so Sephiroth was forced to revert to ‘drastic measures’....or so he’d said. Angeal had never asked what those measures were, and he didn’t think he ever would. He only knew that when he figured out what the younger man had done, he’d gone berserk. That was a night he would never forget; the agony of walking in on his best friend’s lifeless body...the torture of putting two and two together. The way Sephiroth had stood...head bowed, pale as a sheet and _shaking_ as Angeal railed at him, as he cursed him and called him every name in the book. It was insubordination beyond the point of discharge; it was slander and hatred and vitriol. And some part of him _knew_ that Genesis had been in so much pain, that he was miserable and not getting better and that every day he lived a part of his spirit perished. Angeal had seen the last of that riotous, irascible light wink out of those sapphire eyes months beforehand, but he hadn’t been ready to let him go.

Maybe he hadn’t loved Genesis enough to let him go.

Because no matter what way he wanted to slice it, keeping the redhead alive had become a cruelty and not a mercy. There was absolutely no reason to have him hooked up to life support, his breath rattling through his lungs while they were forced to tend him, watch over him like he was a kewpie doll...even with all the rot he was still devastatingly apart when it came to aesthetic. Despite the sickness...he was ethereal in quality...like the rest of them...the three of them. A stained...fragile and beautiful thing wasting to pieces while the rest of the world went on like nothing was wrong. Even in the present moment...Angeal could remember how cold his hands were in his palms...how long and slender and fragile. He could remember what they looked like clasped around Sephiroth’s...how gentle the General’s hands could be despite their cruelty and fierceness...how the silver-haired First had looked at his best friend...like he had all the answers...like he was the single, bright star in a world that was so dark he couldn’t see without him.

Sephiroth had _loved_ Genesis.

Angeal knew now how rare a thing that was. The younger man was slow to trust, and quicker to distrust those who dared betray. He was an eternally closed book that very few were privy to...even in the kindest of moments. And he’d been starstruck and idiotic with their friendship...before. He’d been flagrantly crass with his idolatry, his respect, his concepts of honor. Shinra was not honorable; had _never_ been honorable, and every memory of every time he’d droned on about it made him want to sink into a hole, never to return. Genesis, somehow, had earned Sephiroth’s heart...had taken it and cradled it and treated him with not too much worship and not too much cruelty. His redheaded friend had wormed his way between walls of iron and stone and become something warm and bright and _safe_ for Sephiroth. And he’d been worried...initially, when he saw how things were going. But when they were both happier for it, when they brought out the best in each other, he was helpless to support them.

And of course, when Genesis died...Sephiroth died too.

It was-to put it plainly-horrendously destructive. Not in the sense that it hurt others, but in the sense that the younger man fell apart in a manner that brought every facet of the company to a standstill. He wouldn’t eat...wouldn’t sleep...wouldn’t talk to anyone. Angeal spent seven days banging on his apartment door until he just kicked it in out of sheer desperation. Maybe it was lucky he did, because the amount of alcohol the silver-haired Soldier had consumed in that time frame was enough to give any normal person blood poisoning. Hojo intervened before he could offer any sort of support; dragged Sephiroth somewhere unknown for two months and brought him back looking like a shell. Angeal had-again-never asked what was done, and wasn’t sure he wanted to know. It didn’t get better...not really. He had his own grief to deal with, because he had loved Genesis like a brother, and nothing anyone said or did could assuage that pain. Coupled with the fresh grief of the discovery of his origins, he had enough on his plate without worrying about Sephiroth’s tremendous fall from grace. He worked through it because the only alternative was death; and while he’d considered it, he knew he couldn’t do that to Gillian.

Sephiroth had no such tethers anchoring him to the world.

There were too many attempts to really put it down to an exact science. Angeal supposed that it might be a small mercy that mako made Soldiers nigh impossible to kill...but now he wasn’t so sure. Because every time Sephiroth failed...every time he was thwarted, something in him seemed to shrivel up...seemed to get smaller and smaller. And Angeal had never considered the younger man’s biology, despite the fact that he knew a little bit about it now. He had never considered the aspect of pair bonding, or the fact that Sephiroth had somehow formed a biological link with Genesis that was now...flapping in the wind, so to speak. Stubbornly, in his own grief-blinded selfishness, he insisted to himself that they were both hurting, and that the younger man was simply dealing with it with less maturity and less control. And he hadn’t forgiven Sephiroth for ‘killing’ his best friend, really. That was a hard one to overcome, and he didn’t know how to look at it differently. Because he could have _preservered_ could have done something other than give in to Genesis’ demands to die in peace.

Three years passed in such a way.

Angeal had never been in love...not really. Towards the end of the aforementioned timespace, he’d come to acknowledge that he could never understand his comrade’s grief because he had never been in his position. And Sephiroth had never had friends...had never been loved until Genesis had loved him so wholly...so fully and so completely. When that was ripped from him, everything about the world that had become so hopeful was dashed to pieces. Coupled with Hojo’s abuse, with years and years of pain and suffering as a child...Sephiroth was a man destroyed and nothing, _no one_ could assuage that destruction. So when Lazard called Angeal in to a meeting to discuss the General’s demotion, he fought it. Really, he threw everything in the book at the Director and then stormed off to talk to the subject of their conversation because this would _not_ happen on his watch. Sitting on a balcony outside of Administration, Sephiroth had looked at him like he was a stranger and Angeal was not having it...not anymore.

He sat with him.

It was a bit of a strange experience because he got the distinct feeling that the younger man was waiting for him to explode in one way or another. This made him feel guilty, because the last time they’d spent any good length of time in one another’s presence, he had exploded. He’d been cruel and callous and insensitive and unthinking. They were both different now...haunted...broken...aching in the face of the massive void their fellow First had left behind him. And Sephiroth was so thin...so shadowed and so unlike himself that Angeal _hated_ himself for not coming forward sooner. A part of him acknowledged that Lazard wasn’t far off from the younger man being ‘unfit for duty.’ Not in the sense that he was incompetent, but in the sense that his physical state was simply too vulnerable for him to be out on the field. Mako could work wonders, but it could only work wonders if it had something to work _with_.

_”I’m sorry.”_

Looking back on that moment, Angeal acknowledged that it was the worst thing to say, but it was the only thing he could come up with at the time. When he spoke, Sephiroth jerked...seemed to acknowledge the phrase with his entire body. He shifted in his chair...the wind from the reactors throwing his hair back momentarily before he was able to catch even some semblance of order for it once more.

_”It’s not your fault.”_

This was said with self-loathing...with a deep, dark kind of individual resentment that left him breathless.

_”You loved him, you did what he asked you to do…”_

There was a grating, grinding noise as long fingers clenched in the corrugated metal of the tabletop between them; superhuman strength breaking through the illusion of weakness for a moment before his companion seemed to regain control of himself.

_”...I don’t know if it was the right thing to do.”_

Therein lay the rub; because now they would never know. That lack of knowledge was a crutch that Sephiroth could not overcome due to his nature. And Angeal could be as present as he liked, but it would never change that unanswered question...would never fully assuage it because the solution was now in the Lifestream...was far away and unreachable. For a man that was used to certainty in everything...used to control...this was unconscionable. Sephiroth might be a Soldier, but he had the mind of a scientist; all that analytical cognition...all of that professional foresight had nowhere to go in the face of his lover’s death. Sitting there, watching as the younger man worried his sleeve with a frenetic sort of focus...fingertips trembling with the itch for ethanol, Angeal came to the firm conclusion that Genesis should have never asked it of him...and even if it was Sephiroth’s idea, he should never have acquiesced. Because while the redhead could move on...if you could call death moving on...the silver-haired First would always be stuck wondering, and that would never change.

They were an unlikely pair.

Maybe their misery made them comorbid, but the time they spent together after that held the smallest modicum of respect. And Angeal could at least take comfort in the fact that Sephiroth clearly trusted him enough not to hide his vices from him. They worked together in the field, and if he caught the younger man drinking behind the barracks, he didn’t say anything. Because despite his shortcomings he was still a good General; he was fair, he listened, and he could sympathize with his men even if he clearly couldn’t sympathize with himself. Sephiroth had always treated his men well, and Angeal had never really appreciated that until now. They were focused, controlled, and strong-willed but they were respectful and professional...and more importantly, they clearly loved him. Not in a romantic way, but in that deferential, respectful way that one could only garner through years of nurture and camaraderie. The more he worked with the General, the more he understood why Genesis had loved him so. Because no matter how deep his darkness was, he never imposed that darkness on those who followed him.

It wasn’t okay...but it was living.

Wutai fell, and it fell fast. Realistically, it was only a matter of time, and their grief made them ruthless in combat. Occasionally, when he stopped to think about what they were doing, Angeal acknowledged that no matter how much he wanted to tell himself that this was progressive, it was wrong. It was hard to think past the blood, however...hard to think past anything.  
Whatever secrets were unearthed regarding Shinra’s past were buried beneath progress and continuity. Zack looked at him sometimes...like he’d been expecting something more from him, but Angeal didn’t have anything left to offer. He had wanted the best...for everyone...but now he just wanted to be able to get out of bed and make it through the day. That was hard enough in of itself; sometimes...he wasn’t always successful.

Maybe his epiphany of Sephiroth’s strengths was his downfall.

He didn’t really know; he only knew it had led them to where they were now. They got along...they talked, quite often. Sephiroth didn’t smile anymore, but if Angeal said something hairbrained his lips quirked up on the right side in a funny sort of vague amusement. He began to look forward to their time together; ticked off certain nights on the calendar in the living room that he dubbed ‘Sephiroth nights’ in his mind. At no point did he consider romanticism, it was simply off the table. They played cards, watched movies, or shot pool in the rec room. Sometimes they sparred, but it wasn’t the same without Genesis. Nothing and no one could replace Genesis, but they found a tenuous sort of continuity in their current existence. And he didn’t know what the redhead had planned for Shinra, but neither of them had the will or the drive to change anything now save for what they could do from within.

Something changed.

He didn’t know what or when it changed, but it changed. Maybe it was when Sephiroth raided his liquor cabinet and drank enough scotch to put him under the table four times and passed out in his bed. Angeal woke up with his arms full of soft-hard lines, alabaster skin and the thrum of a heartbeat against his back and ran full-tilt to the bathroom to take a very long, very cold shower. Maybe it was when he fell asleep on the General’s shoulder in the middle of a movie and woke up the next morning to find himself sprawled all over his lap while the younger man snored above him...clearly having decided not to move despite the discomfort of the position and their proximity. Maybe it was when Sephiroth walked out of the communal showers in nothing but a bath towel and proceeded to strip in front of him like it was the most natural thing in the world. And he caught a glimpse then...of that strangeness; the silver-haired Soldier had always been somewhat apart from those around him...had always been different in an alien, choking sort of way. But the glimpse of his adverse biology...of the masculinity of his physicality down to the soft...roseate part between his legs was a little maddening in ways Angeal very stubbornly ignored.

Genesis had once said that _’only a deaf, blind idiot would think that Sephiroth was unattractive._

At the time, he’d chalked it up to infatuation, but that changed very quickly as well. At first glance, the General seemed married to dogma...enslaved to his purpose. But he was equally quick to think; and Angeal had known he was brilliant, but he hadn’t known he was observant of others around him. Sephiroth was socially sensitive in a way that others were not. Reading people came easily to him...he could measure intent with the bat of an eyelid. The owner of the Buster Sword acknowledged that his reticence towards making friends didn’t come from a lack of knowledge regarding how other people lived, but because of a vast well of knowledge regarding how people lived versus what they actually wanted. The culmination of this realization was staggering, because it meant that Sephiroth understood that humans were _selfish_ , and as such chose his friends carefully, because he didn’t want to get hurt.

And, of course, they ended up hurting each other.

It was late at night...past midnight by his reckoning. He’d invited the General over for cards, but they ended up going over a debriefing he was having trouble with on the sofa. Professionalism was comfortable for both of them, especially when it came to the company. Discussing the inner workings of the facets of their careers was easy because they were both, at this point, quite good at them. Sephiroth was perhaps halfway to very badly inebriated, and Angeal had given up on trying to talk him out of it years before. Whatever strength Genesis had given him to quit, he didn’t have it anymore, and it seemed to be one of the few satisfactions he had left in life. He could always tell when the younger man was running that edge between drunk and sober because he bit his lips until they were faintly red, his fingers grew restless, and his eyes got a glassy, distracted quality to them that indicated he was neither here nor there but vaguely content and that was fine. He stopped trying to push his hair out of his face and it fell in haphazard, glittering strings over his visage...sometimes getting caught on the vermillion of his mouth before he pushed it away again. Angeal had to give him credit for continued ability to verbalize; despite a slower, more relaxed enunciation, he could form words perfectly up to a certain point.

He wasn’t-at that point-much better off.

Angeal’s last deployment was exorbitantly harder than some that had come before. He’d lost thirteen men...wrote thirteen grievance letters to thirteen families. The youngest loss he’d garnered was a seventeen year old boy...barely on the cusp of manhood. He’d died with his guts spilling out onto the ground...staring sightlessly at the sky as blood poured over his lips. It was during times like this that the Commander needed to go home and have several stiff somethings. He didn’t make a habit of it, but the numbness made the guilt easier to bear. And so they were together...neither of them in a very positive frame of mind...tired beyond reckoning and yet not wanting to sleep. They’d consumed a fair amount between them but no one was keeping track, and the rain outside provided a metallic, tinny sort of backdrop to everything that was illusorily peaceful. He was warm in that fuzzy, misanthropic sort of way that was deeply deceiving and nothing else really mattered.

Sephiroth touched him.

Specifically, Sephiroth was already close enough that he could feel his body heat...even under all the leather, and their fingers gazed against one another as they both reached for the next slip of paper at the same time. It was stupid...really. Something you’d see in movies...not in a war-ridden, power-hungry dystopia. They both paused...like a pair of eagles leaning over the precipice of a mountain...feeling the thrill of the drop before truly participating it. Angeal raised his head, opened his mouth to apologize...to offer whatever document they were looking at to the younger man. He was-inorexibly-locked in a gaze that was both ravenous and tortured. And he _knew_ better at this point than to go for something so blatantly obvious. He also knew that Sephiroth’s biology made him gravitate towards that which was sexual without much thought behind it. But they were both strung out...both tired...both unhappy, and both inebriated and it was _right there._

...And it was too much.

The buckles of Sephiroth’s coat creaked somewhat as he moved forward, as those green eyes zeroed in on his lips in a contemplative...listless sort of way. He licked his lips, and Angeal followed the movement of his tongue...the slow-fast dart of it over already-reddened surfaces. His fingers felt suddenly numb...like they’d lost all feeling in them even as heat bloomed in his cheeks. When the younger man closed the gap between them, he acknowledged the slight sway his posture...the manner in which his hands struggled to find purchase in his lapels even though they were there and easy to grasp. His hair fell forward again, became an encumbrance when their mouths met...like a web between them as they kissed sloppily; slowly at first...and then with a kind of delirious fervor. Angeal could smell what had been consumed prior, it was cloying on his taste buds...acidic and acerbic. Sephiroth groaned and it was unrestrained in a drunken...thoughtless manner of vocality that should have given him pause.

It didn’t.

It didn’t, so when his hands lifted to push that mass of moonlit follicular starlight away from them, it didn’t matter anymore. Angeal had very few experiences in the bedroom, very few romantic dalliances with which to expound upon when it came to this sort of thing. Beyond the taste of the alcohol was something different...something equally inveigling and perhaps twice as heady...but he couldn’t place it. The hands grasping his lapels had begun a slow...stroking trek upwards...clumsy and misplaced but sure at the same time. A tongue invaded his mouth and the wet...unctuous sound that came with it was further damning. He was hot...too hot..and too far gone to stop what was surely going to happen. Even as his mind tried to come up with some avenue of pursuit when it came to halt, Sephiroth was rising to his knees, was practically pushing him backwards into the couch in order to get on top of him. Angeal could feel the hardness of his erection pressing against his groin; insistent, swollen and desirous. Sinking back into the pillows, the General between his legs, he acknowledged that at least this was happening with someone the younger man trusted, and not some stranger he’d picked up off the streets.

It was all somewhat of a blur.

They rutted against each other for a while; need against need...mouths slack and mindless as their hips worked in tandem. It was a little bit brutal, for him anyway. He wasn’t a hair puller, but they were both apparently hair-pullers in that moment as they bucked and rocked into one another with a kind of desperation that could only come from the desperately sexually deprived and borderline intoxicated. And Sephiroth was beautiful in a manner that was a little bit frightening like that...all flushed cheeks and ragged breath...his lips wet and red with facets of desire and dipsomania. When they got their clothes off he didn’t know, only that there were suddenly hands on his erection that clearly had very little idea of what they were doing. That broke his heart a little bit, because it was clear that despite their time together, Sephiroth and Genesis had been taking it very slow, and he felt like he was _ruining_ that sanctity. In the moment, however, the General didn’t seem to care about whatever might remain of his virginity.

Really, he seemed quite determined to lose it.

He resisted at first when Sephiroth yanked him upwards. Angeal held back with every modicum of what remained of his strength for all of a few seconds before going along with the hand that pulled him inexorably to the bedroom. They staggered together; had to stop fall against the walls here and there so the moment wasn’t lost to them; had to pause to grope, lick, and suck and it was there that he first got his hands into that wet...clenching heat...and there that Sephiroth’s groans became filthy and unrestrained. He supposed that if they were doing this properly they wouldn't be so disorganized and sloppy about it. He doubted, however, that there was any chance of _’doing this properly’_ at all...so it didn’t really matter in the long run. They managed to get to the bedroom and Sephiroth practically fell over the mattress in his haste to turn over...to crawl on his hands and knees to the headboard and present himself life he was some type of cattle stock ripe for the taking.

It was here, at least, that Angeal garnered enough sensibility to take it slow.

The owner of the Buster Sword managed-despite his now painful arousal-to turn the younger man over instead of rutting into him like he was a faceless stranger. The dark-haired First garnered enough cognizance to treat his bed partner kindly; to kiss him thoroughly as he stroked the weeping head of his cock, to work him open until he was fair soaking around his fingers so the initial process wouldn’t be too painful. Sephiroth didn’t look at him...seemed to prefer to distract himself by closing his eyes and mapping the outline of Angeal’s jugular as he shivered in the throes of pleasure. He might have come...but it was hard to tell; that lithe body stiffened, and the silken walls around the dark-haired man’s fingers clenched but Sephiroth seemed to swallow it down...seemed to push it inside of himself even as his sex pulsed about tremulous digits.

Angeal also had enough sense to use a condom.

He was not so far gone that-thankfully-safe sex was off the table. It took a few tries to manage it...took a massive amount of his focus to push himself away from the willing body beneath him to roll the rubber out over himself. By the time he was finished, Sephiroth had sat up to suck him off and it made the job twice as hard and even more inconvenient. It was very difficult to push the younger man away from his cock so he could at least ensure that nothing...extra came out of this encounter. They fumbled with each other for a moment afterwards; Angeal returned to the cradle of pale hips post application and Sephiroth drew him in for a kiss that had him rutting against that soft opening as large, calloused hands palmed his backside in a distracted yet covetous manner.

There was blood.

Not a lot, but not so little that he wasn’t aware of the significance of what Sephiroth was allowing him to do. He wasn’t privy to the visualization of it until afterwards, but he could smell it. As the younger man threw his head back and arched his back upon ingress...it was there. He was still as long as was physically tolerable...longer than the silver-haired First was wanting to wait...and he supposed that that, at least, was enough. He thrust deep; sat up and pulled the body before him closer by the hips until the General got the message and wrapped his legs around his thighs so he could work him open slowly. Here, those green eyes would look at him, and he guessed that that was as small a mercy as he was going to get. Like jewels under silver lashes...they watched him as he drove forward, glazed over with no small modicum of lust as the fullness of his erection pressed against the walls of his arousal.

Sephiroth’s cock was flat against his belly...flushed with the encompassing saturation of his lust. It occurred to him that they hadn’t spoken to each other since the cumulation of this...but neither of them were particularly verbose individuals, and talk-in this situation-was cheap. It was only when Sephiroth came for the first time that he allowed himself some slack in the communication department. The physicality before him stiffened, writhed somewhat before his companion let out a sound that was somewhere between a grunt and a shout. Angeal’s breath hissed through his teeth as nails dug into his backside in a manner that was as rhythmic as the clench of his partner’s orgasm. Leaning forward, the dark-haired First nuzzled the flushed shell of an ear before opening his mouth.

_”Good?”_

Whatever he’d expected from his decision to speak, it was not what happened subsequently.

Sephiroth stiffened before seeming to come to a split second decision. The legs around Angeal’s waist became vice-like before he was abruptly flipped. In any other situation, he might have been impressed by his partner’s maneuverability. At the time, he could only watch with a kind of helpless, despairing wonderment as the younger man loomed over him...his teeth bared in something that was almost a snarl but really wasn’t as he sank down on his cock with an ease that was staggering. But-of course-Sephiroth was never going to be slow to learn in any situation, so when the silver-haired First began to move experimentally, he was somewhat helpless to do anything but go along for the ride. They found a rhythm...something rough and desperate that really wouldn’t be kind enough for anyone else experiencing their first time but seemed to suit the General just fine. At this point, they were both working towards release; anything gentle or polite was out of the cards.

Angeal grasped a length of silver hair in his palm...twisted it round until he could pull it just-so. Sephiroth groaned, his eyes narrowing as his hips rocked against him; one hand flat against the older man’s chest as the other worked the length of his cock. Some moments later, his body grew taut once more, spine inverting somewhat as he bucked sharply, hair slithering over his shoulders to frame his face as he did so. The lithe physicality before him jerked; once, twice, three times-warmth splattering the Commander’s abdomen-before Angeal lost his senses completely and drove upwards...rose to an elbow even as Sephiroth swayed, lost in the throes of orgasm as the dark-haired First mouthed against his belly in a mindless manner...the pinnacle of his pleasure crashing down upon him. He thrust deep, found his release in the shuddering finality of the General’s peak and was only vaguely aware when the younger man made a soft, throaty and satisfied sound into his hair.

The tranquility of the moment didn’t last long.

It seemed mere seconds had passed before Sephiroth was sliding off him, his movements stiff and somewhat disjointed. Musculature bunched as Angeal’s impromptu bedmate stretched languorously before settling into the coverlets with a sleepy, somewhat satiated expression. The silence that fell over the room was tenuous...vibrating. Peeling the condom off and disposing of it only seemed to make it worse.

...And that was what had left him there.

Staring at the mess before him, Angeal swallowed and tried not to feel guilty, but it was impossible. This should never have been his privilege. He was sober enough at this point to acknowledge the terrible transgression he had committed. This should have been _Genesis’_ privilege, not his. And he didn’t care how many girlfriends the redhead had stolen from him in the past, the Commander was fully aware of how much Sephiroth had meant to his childhood friend. He didn’t even know if he _liked_ men; didn’t know if sleeping with the individual next to him counted as technically sleeping with a man. That was a whole ‘nother nest of hornets he would have to work through on his own; what this was...what this meant for him.

“You’re a virgin.”

It came out of his mouth involuntarily, without thought, without real aim or reason behind it. Not looking at Sephiroth, Angeal ran a hand through his hair...took a deep breath and let it out again. The sheets rustled, and for a moment he thought he wouldn’t get a reply.

“Was.” This was said flatly, with little emotion behind it. The lack of tonality in the response was enough to make the older man turn around. When he did, he was privy to the sight of the silver-haired First running a contemplative hand over his mouth...like he could still taste him. Those green eyes caught his gaze, and a pale brow rose sardonically. “Not anymore.”

The comment was so blaise, so casual and so flagrant that Angeal laughed, though there was no humor behind it.

“That-” he stopped and shook his head. “-That _doesn’t_ make me feel better. I shouldn’t have-”

“-Then who?” It took the Commander a moment to realize that Sephiroth’s words were clipped, entirely cognizant. It made sense; whatever effects the alcohol would have had on either of them was long gone; both from stretch of time and from physical exertion.

“It should have been him” the blue-eyed Soldier muttered, ignoring the way his voice choked up. “It should have-”

“-He wouldn’t” was the irritable return. “Not when he found out about the degradation.” Sephiroth stretched again, drew one leg up and bent it to the side...enough that-

“-How can you be so comfortable with this?!” Angeal demanded. “How does this-”

“-I wanted it to be you.” This brought the older man up short, and he must have looked confused because the General suddenly looked annoyed. “I wanted it” he said firmly. “You didn’t force me. I’ve wanted it for a while.”

_”Why?”_

His frown deepening, Sephiroth blinked, his hand dropping to his belly before he sighed and sat up.

“Because I trust you” he deadpanned. “And because there’s...there’s no one else that…” For a moment, a panicked look suffused that impassive visage. Something vulnerable that Angeal didn’t think he’d ever seen before. “I wanted to feel good” he gritted out. “Just _once_ , but I understand if you don’t-”

“-Stop” Angeal said abruptly. When the silver-haired Soldier looked miserable-miserable for Sephiroth, anyway-he shook his head. “I’m sorry” he mumbled. “I enjoyed it” he admitted after a moment. “And I...I feel _honored_ that you would choose me, but Sephiroth you...you were _drunk_ and I wasn’t far off. I just...I just wish this could have happened differently. You could have told me, you could have told me any time, anywhere.”

His companion shook his head, green eyes disappearing beneath silver lashes.

“...Would you have said yes?”

Opening his mouth to respond, the dark-haired First paused, and then closed it again. Because no, he wouldn’t have. No matter how much he tried to express his willingness for openness, he would never have consented to this in a logical state of mind because of his loyalty to Genesis. It was-even now-heinous to him. Bitterly, Angeal acknowledged that Sephiroth had played his cards well...that he had indeed known what he was doing. Those emerald irises were watching him again, the understanding in them...the foreknowledge...it was painful.

“Realistically” Sephiroth said slowly. “It was I who forced myself on you, regardless of position.”

“That’s ridiculous” Angeal snorted, even as something in his chest twinged painfully in acknowledgement.

The General tilted his head.

“...Is it?”

It wasn’t.

It wasn’t...and he supposed that was made it so much more painful. He didn’t _hate_ Sephiroth for it...though maybe he should have. He understood that need, understood the simplistic desire to take in order to feel. Angeal wasn’t free from human vices, he knew what desire felt like; had sought out satisfaction for the sake of satisfaction simply because he could. He also understood that Sephiroth had chosen him because he knew him...because he knew Angeal wouldn’t go running to the press the second he got the opportunity. It didn’t change the callousness of it, or the carelessness. He hoped, genuinely, that their friendship could survive this...but he was too hurt and too upset to examine the possibility of it now.

“You should go” he said stiffly.

“I am.”

This was said perfunctorily, as if they were talking about the weather. Sephiroth rose, staggered slightly, and he might have felt guilty if the circumstances were different...but they weren’t. Like a pale shadow, his fellow First made his way to the door without looking back. Only when he’d turned the knob and begun to push it open did Angeal speak again.

“We should talk.” Green eyes refocused on him...that beautiful visage completely blank. “Tomorrow, at lunch.” Swallowing, the dark-haired man continued. “I want...I still want to be your friend, Sephiroth. But this...this is too much right now.”

The aforementioned man blinked in acknowledgement. The only indication that he was emotionally affected was a slight tightening of the knuckles on the door frame...which cracked under the strain.

“I understand.”

The door shut behind him, and Angeal was left to stare at it and wonder if he really did. Because as strong as he wanted to tell himself he was...his attempts at fixing this might be his undoing.

In his attempts to preserve them, he might have ruined something that was already broken beyond repair.

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/N:** Thanks for reading. I know this is kind of a tough one, but it was one of those I've been wanting to write for a while, I just hadn't found the time to do it until today. 
> 
> There may be some grammatical errors that I'll fix later. 
> 
> Edit: I don't really want to make this a part 4 of Black Nebula, but I'm trying to figure out how to link it so notificatons may go screwy every once in a while. 
> 
>  
> 
> **R &R**


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